


they say it fades if you let it

by adreamaloud, daneorange (adreamaloud)



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/adreamaloud, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/daneorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She just says, “So am I,” and you think, if you’re not breaking up, then what is <i>this</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	they say it fades if you let it

What to say then? That it was a momentary thing? A lapse in judgment? A mistake? (That it will never happen again? – the thought makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time, against the weight it leaves right on your chest, after.)

You say you’ll do anything; you realize too late how fucking uncomfortable that must have come off, actually doing the note with a little _art_ . The next thing you know you’re looking out a second-floor window and she’s picking it off the door before you can even think about the first ‘anything’ – the blank sheet of your mind is not really for the lack of want, or at least not entirely; really, it’s more for the lack of options.

After all, what is there left to do? Certainly, more crying isn’t about to help anyone, and right then, she’s coming in from the door, and you’re turning around from the window, and.

The first thing that hits you is the look on her face; in your head, you’re hearing someone say something about not being able to keep a single good thing going, and against the accusation in that tone you shut your eyes, and breathing starts feeling a lot like cutting yourself open.

The bed between looks wider than it really is and the air around takes on a more physical presence, the sort that pushes against the skin.

When she opens her mouth, there is no sound; you had hoped she would at least start yelling, because it’s what you’ve prepared yourself for, but instead she falls back against the door, head bowed and shaking; she’s muttering, how could you, over and over and over and.

Really, how? It’s not like you haven’t had your fill of this question; not like you’re not tired of not having an answer, either. You push the heel of your palms against your closed eyes until the pitch black and the weight become unbearable and then there are tears again, as expected.

Emily looks up, asks one last time, “How could you?”

When you open your eyes, they sting from the salt, a little; you want to tell her how this all frightens you, but then the last thing you need to hear is how you’re always scared anyway, so you settle for, “I don’t know.”

There are things that happen to relationships, things people never recover from; the phrase that comes to you this time is, ‘the final straw’. You ponder that as you look at her, curled on the bed and looking the other way, while you’re seated on a chair by the open window, smoking; it’s already late, yet you know no one’s sleeping in this house tonight.

A part of you just wants this over and done with; if Emily’s never forgiving you, then so be it – no need to be cruel, yeah? No need to stay and be here and remind you of things you don’t get to keep.

When Emily shifts on the bed to face you, the noise she makes is so amplified you find yourself gripping the arm of the chair you’re in; the little light from the window illuminates her face in a way that shatters your heart all over again.

You mouth, “I’m sorry,” despite knowing it doesn’t count for much anything, anyway.

She just says, “So am I,” and you think, if you’re not breaking up, then what is _this_?

*

You don’t wake early enough to catch her the next morning; when you get downstairs, her backpack’s all neat and packed and she’s nowhere in sight. You wait a little before starting breakfast; the house is quieter than you’ll ever be used to, and that’s telling in itself.

The absence of sound is so tangible it’s almost like having someone else sitting right there across the table, and you think, it’s decidedly too early to start crying all over again, but then in keeping with the theme, _what else is there left_ , you begin anyway; it comes at you in sharp short bursts as you try hard to make your tea without scalding yourself.

And all it takes is one girl, doesn’t it? To open you all up, and suddenly you’re all _vulnerable_ ; sometimes you think about it, the new person you’ve become – it’s someone people like, that much you can give yourself, but then there are times like this when it’s almost better off not to have begun letting people in at all.

It’s the slowest breakfast ever; when you’re done your tea is cold and still, no Emily.

*

It is already late afternoon when she comes back around; you’re smoking out the same second-floor window, staring at the same space below. The flash of red is jarring; your breath hitches and your stomach does this funny thing where it feels like it’s crumpling itself.

Emily doesn’t look up; she’s just standing there, looking at the door, unmoving for a very long while. You think about how it’s almost better, for her to walk away this time; better for all parties concerned, actually. You don’t deny that being around her is just as painful as not being around her lately, and, truth be told, you’ve lost count of exactly how many times you’ve asked yourself how the fuck you managed to back yourself into this corner.

You flinch as she moves forward; there’s the sound of a door opening below, her steps on the stairs. When she pushes against the door to your room, you flick the cigarette off to the street; you turn around, sighing as you think, _Here we go again_.

*

It’s not even that you’re fighting _fighting_ , and maybe that’s exactly what makes all of it all the more taxing.

She closes the door gently behind her; the look on her face not as heartbreaking as it was the day before. You wonder if you can ask where she’s been – if you can say anything, actually. Or at least, anything that doesn’t begin with an apology.

You don’t, because it’s easier that way, and God knows you could really use something that’s _easier_. She sits on the farther edge of the bed, facing you, and reflexively you lean against the window, as if to maximize the space between. She looks as if she’s waiting for something to fill the oppressive silence with; either she’s waiting for you to do it, or she’s waiting for something to come to her. Whatever it is, you’re not entirely certain, but you look away just the same as it is unbearable.

When she says your name finally, after what seems to be a decade-long pause, it still comes out soft and it hurts indescribably. You wonder if it’s ever going to be the same, after; if there is in fact a way to do this that will not leave either of you beyond repair.

(All it takes is _one girl_ , doesn’t it?)

You sigh, looking at your hands; you’re shaking your head and not saying anything back. After a while, there’s the shuffle of sheets, the sound of a door closing. When you look up, there’s just space, and you can’t even tell what the feeling that floods you exactly _is_ ; the breath you let out is shaky at best.

Perhaps, you’ll fight another day; with her or for her, you’re not certain either. For now though, you’re just tired. It’s about time you let yourself leave it at that.  


**Author's Note:**

> Naomi, post-series 4 episode 2. Title is from Crown of Love by Arcade Fire. The This is Ivy League cover of that is fantastic.


End file.
